Your Job, My Job
by lucacat4
Summary: "My, my, Sam Winchester." The sharp, gaunt face gazes at him mournfully. "You do have a knack for getting yourself into trouble, don't you?" Sam comes face to face with his reaper once more, and is forced to weigh his options and decide where his duties truly lie.


Sam can see the thin face and sharp profile out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps his face turned away, eyes gazing somberly out the open window as the landscape drifts by. The sun is illuminating the pines, beating down on the grass, but the breeze is cool and he gladly leans into it, allows it to chill his hot cheeks and press against his eyes, forbidding the tears to come.

"My my, Sam Winchester. You _do _have a knack for getting yourself into trouble, don't you?"

He doesn't answer, and his reaper doesn't press him for a response.

"Well, here we are again. I'm sure you know what I'm going to say, Sam. The question is, what are you going to say?"

Sam licks his lips nervously. He can almost taste the remnants of salt from so many guns, almost smell the sulfur on his clothes, but not quite. He's crossed that threshhold now, left the sounds and smells of just moments ago so far behind. He can no longer feel the warm wetness of his blood or the fire of his wounds, can't hear Dean's frantic voice calling to him, begging him, pleading him to _stay with me, Sammy, you hear me, I'm not going to let go so you better not let go either, c'mon little brother, you can do this_. Dean's voice is out of reach, now, he's alone with the pain behind him and the prospect of god knows what kind of pain before him, and oh _god_, why can't he just end and be finished with it all, skip the torture and let his vision fade to black?

"You must understand that you can't postpone this forever. At some point in life, everyone reaches a crossroads. It is your turn, Sam. Which way shall you go?"

There's fire behind him and fire ahead.

"Most people have a lot to say, you know," the reaper remarks conversationally. "They beg, they plead, they cry, sometimes they even yell, but no one, _no one_ goes without a word. Speak."

"Don't have much of a choice, do I?" Sam's voice is hoarse, grating against his throat.

"Why are you so sure?"

"You should know better than anyone, on top of our god-awful lives we Winchesters don't fare so well in death, either. Hell seems to be developing into a family tradition."

"It is unwise to convict the unjudged, Sam."

"I've _always_ been judged! Always convicted, do you understand? I was branded with a 'bound for hell' sticker practically since I was born, since I got fed demon blood and my mother was _murdered_!" He screams the words, saliva flying and the strain tearing at his throat, but the reaper merely raises a thin eyebrow, eyes still on the road.

Now they're on a mountain path, rocky and uneven. The car jolts and Sam curses under his breath as he's flung headlong into the window.

Sam turns back to the view, mouth twitching at the cold irony of the situation; he's about to die, here, but first he's got to enjoy a nice road trip with his reaper.

"Enjoying the scenery?" The reaper turns toward him for a moment, lips twitching in a smile.

"Oh, yeah, it's freakin' amazing," Sam snaps, shifting in his seat. Trust him to land a weirdo, nature-lover reaper.

"Would you care for some air-conditioning?" The reaper doesn't wait for an answer, just turns on the low whir of the fan as golden rays fill the car, and the air becomes hot and stifling. A desert, this time, sky streaked with peach and plum splashes.

He never liked the desert. Too visible for his tastes; the lack of shadow and absence of shelter always made him cringe, even when he was little. Much too open, making him feel like a small prey open to the watchful eyes of predators circling above. It's disconcerting, the miles and miles of endless sand, unbroken and unchanging.

He licks lips that are suddenly dry, reaches reflexively for the water bottle that he and Dean usually keep on the floor of the Impala, then halts as he remembers. Not the Impala, and not Dean driving. He grits his teeth together, turns to his left.

"Are we there yet?" A flush rises in his cheeks at how utterly childish and ridiculous that sounds. "I think I've had enough of our road trip, let's do this and get it over with."

The reaper pulls one hand off the wheel, rummaging in the pocket on the side of his door, then pulls out a piece of paper, which he hands to Sam. It's blank, pristine, and he turns it over to examine the other side.

_Sam Winchester_

_Born: May 2nd, 1983._

_Died: _

"Look."

"I don't understand, it's the writing on my-"

"Look at yourself, Samuel. Tell me, do you deserve to be committed to damnation for all eternity?"

The reaper slows the car to a halt, turns in the seat, gazing at Sam expectantly.

"I don't know, dammit, I try and I _try _and I've made so many mistakes. I'm done with it, done with all of it. You came here to reap me? Well then reap me, dammit. Do your job, take me and let's end this thing once and for all. I mean it-take me, but don't let me come back, if I'm going to die I'm going to stay dead. I know what Dean would do to get me back-anything. And that's my condition. I'm dead, then I _stay dead_. There, happy?"

"This mortal life is so brief, the world is so small a place. Humankind is lucky enough to possess the ability for free choices, yet you always seem to waste them for guilt and for envy, for the grotesque and the unhappy. Dean loves, you Sam, did you know? You must have known, yet you two so rarely allow yourselves to dwell in affection for each other. All that pain, all that danger, yet you still refrain. He's calling for you as we speak, Sam. I can hear him."

"Stop. Stop it."

The reaper gazed at Sam, eyes hardening.

"You are blessed with life, Sam, with life and death and whatever comes after concerns you, not me. I don't have either of those options, I am neither alive nor dead. Do you wish to know where you are now? You are at the crucial point, the threshhold between one room and another, the crossroads." He flicked his finger at the wheel, and the car began to spin in place, slowly turning around and around. "Choices, Sam, those are the stuff of life. You chose to betray Dean, to lie to him, to hurt him." Sam closed his eyes in despair, bowing his head at the words. "But you also chose to save him, to stay and fight the good fight by his side. You're not gone, yet, Sam, but you are close. So close to life, so close to death, but in either case you are no longer by his side. He misses you. I can hear his pain, this is the cruellest he has ever felt." The car spun faster. "I cannot decide for you what road you will take. No one can choose but you. Rest, let go of the burden of this world, leave it behind," he urged, and Sam opened his eyes once more, looked into his face and saw the lightness of oblivion, the lack and the freedom. "Or not, of course. Would you really abandon your brother, who needs you so badly? Would you leave him to live alone, to die alone, to make the same choices that you are making, without the knowledge that you are still behind him? Can you commit him to such torture?" The car spun faster, and the reaper's voice quickened. "Would you have it another way, would you rather to be denied the choice?"

Tears coursed down Sam's face, unbidden, and he let them fall.

"Look," the reaper said again, and Sam raised his eyes, looked into the mirror above the windshield. His reflection flickered, faded to black, and then a series of images, like clips from a faulty movie, danced across the screen.

His mother and father, young and laughing, drinking milkshakes in a diner.

His mother, pregnant and leaning over the edge of the sofa to smile at John as he hammered picture frames into the wall.

Dean, innocent and joyful, kicking a soccer ball.

Sam, a baby in a cradle, shadowed by Dean's face as he lent over the railing to say goodnight.

John's face, streaked with tears, eyes raised from the huddle of Sam and Dean, lit up by the red light of a raging fire.

John's face again, hard and cold now, grimacing as he tipped back a large portion of whiskey.

Dean's face, screwed tightly in anguish as he knelt in the mud in the dark and clutched a lolling head-_Sam's head_-to his chest, tears dripping from his eyes and mouth open in-

"Alright, alright, stop!" Sam barked. "Just do what you need to do...please."

"You still don't understand, do you?" his reaper asked meditatively. "Remember what your father always told your brother." _Look after Sammy._ "Remember what your mother always told your brother." _Angels are watching over you_. "I think we both know that Dean doesn't have a flock of the heavenly host to keep him company. He has a job to do, a job that he will never forget. You have a job too, Sam. You're not an angel, not even close, but you too can watch over Dean. Go. Go, and may you find what you seek, whatever it is and whereever it may be. I have a feeling that it is closer to home than you may expect. Until the next time, Samuel Winchester."

The reaper clicked his fingers, the car spun even faster until Sam's world tipped and colors swirled and he fell down, down into the waiting darkness with Death's words ringing in his ears.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Awareness filters in gradually, percolating through the murky depths and piercing his mind with sharp twinges of clarity. He feels something soft beneath him, and a light weight over him. Something warm and wet trickles down his cheek, and he wonders why he is crying, because there's no need to cry, he's never felt so at peace in his life. Before he can finish the thought, almost, something wipes the wetness away, pulling gently at his hair.

A soft voice floats down from somewhere above him. "You suck, you know that? Don't ever put me through that again, or I swear I'll bring you back just to kill you again." The voice breaks slightly, and he wants to open his eyes, wants to see why the voice is so upset, but he's warm and tired and it's too much work to do anything more than listen. "Sammy? You in there, dude?"

His cheeks are wet, again, but he realizes with mild surprise that the wetness isn't coming from his own eyes, but instead splashing down from above. He pulls himself together and, in a heroic effort, opens his eyes.

Dean's face hovers above his, green eyes swimming with tears but creased with a smile, for even as his tears trace tracks down his cheeks, he smiles. "Hiya, there. Good to have you back. I-don't leave me, Sammy, ok? Don't ever check out on me, you don't get to do that for anything. You have a job here, you hear me?"

Sam smiles too, because he knows what he's looking for, and he's found it. It was here all along. "I won't. I have a job here," he whispers.

Dean rubs his hand across his face, turns back to his brother. "Yes, you do, Sam. And your job is to go to sleep right now, and get better."

Sam wants to protest, wants to tell him that that isn't the job he meant, but he's too sleepy and all he can do is smile contentedly. He can tell Dean later.

As he drifts back down to sleep, he thinks a murmur of a voice above him says, "I know, Sammy. I got you."

Dean's always got him. Always.


End file.
